


Mechanics

by ununpentium



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununpentium/pseuds/ununpentium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I knew it was a bad day when I came home to find Sherlock staring at the washing machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Noisy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4072) by daretobeboring. 



> This is something I imagine Sherlock needs to to if he gets overwhelmed. There is a brief mention to past drug use, but this is not based on current drug use. I was inspired by the artwork "Noisy" by daretobeboring on deviantart.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Sherlock Holmes, it’s that you can’t fit him into a neat box of diagnostic criteria. He’s simply Sherlock.

~~~

I knew it was a bad day when I came home to find Sherlock staring at the washing machine. It was empty. Sherlock had put it on with nothing inside, and he was sitting cross legged on the floor staring at the rotating drum. I wanted to reach out, to touch him, reassure him, but I couldn’t; not while he was in that state. Any touch would startle him and he would start twisting his hands over and over and over, locked onto the mechanics of the movement. Instead I started humming Celtic lullabies to myself as I moved slowly around the kitchen, around Sherlock, making myself some tea. The humming soothed him; it reassured him of my presence without the physical touch. He did not have to respond, he could simply be.

 

I thought back to the first time I had seen Sherlock sitting in front of the washing machine. It was after the pool. After Moriarty. The semtex vest was fake, Sherlock and I made it out alive but Moriarty escaped. We might have been physically unharmed, but that night we had feared for our lives. When we got home, Sherlock was in pieces. I had never seen such a strong, genuine emotional reaction from him before. He was shaking, his silver eyes were darting around the room and I couldn’t make out what he was saying for the words were tumbling over themselves coming out of his mouth. I went to pull him into a hug, but he tensed up and bolted into the kitchen.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t alright. I sank back onto the sofa and let my head fall back onto the cushion. I was trembling all over. Usually after an adrenaline rush I would tremble, but it felt good. I would be on a high, laughing in the hallway with Sherlock after running across London, jumping from rooftops. This time the high wasn’t there, only the thrumming of panic through my veins. I heard the washing machine start up and I pulled myself up from the sofa and peered into the kitchen. It was dark. Sherlock was sitting in the dark, on the floor, in front of the washing machine. He still had his coat and scarf on. I could make out his silhouette; his coat had fanned out behind him as he sat hunched in front of the washing machine, knees hugged to his chest.

“Sherlock?” He did not react to my voice. He was just staring as the drum rotated. I crouched down next to him and gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He jumped out of his skin, scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. I stayed crouched on the floor of the darkened kitchen for a moment, stunned and not quite sure what to make of Sherlock’s behaviour. The washing machine clunked loudly behind me, the sound seemed amplified in the quiet of the kitchen and reverberated around my skull. I stood up slowly and walked through the lounge to Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was shut, but I could see a strip of light seeping out from underneath. I knocked tentatively.

“Can I come in? I’m worried, Sherlock. I just want to make sure you are okay. I promise not to touch you, if that’s worried you, alright? No touching, I just want to see you’re okay.”

“Mm,” came the mumbled reply from inside the bedroom, so quiet I nearly missed it. I opened the door and peered around, taking in the sight of Sherlock’s room. There were books piled everywhere, including on the unmade bed, and a whole wall was pinned full of Sherlock’s scrawled notes and crime scene photos from cold cases. It took me a moment to notice that Sherlock was huddled in one corner of his bedroom, as if sitting with his back to the corner with the two walls surrounding him made him feel safe. He was staring at his hands as he contorted them into impossible shapes, coat and scarf still on.

I stepped towards him ever so slightly, when my mobile vibrated in my pocket. I flinched, the memories of what had happened at the pool rushed back and the vibration made me think faintly of explosives. My heart started pounding in my chest and the moisture disappeared from my mouth. I yanked my mobile out of my pocket and started at the screen. Mycroft.

“H-Hello? Mycroft?” I dry swallowed.

“John. I’ve been informed about the business earlier this evening with Moriarty. The Metropolitan Police have passed on your statements, and of course I have my own on-going surveillance. It is therefore understandable that both you and Sherlock are currently feeling highly emotional and experiencing the after effects of the adrenaline.”

“It’s Sherlock, he-“ I started.

“Let him be, John. I assure you; he is fine and will be able to talk to you in the morning. Goodbye.”

Mycroft hung up before I could ask him to explain why Sherlock was behaving as he was, or ask him for any further information about the whereabouts of Moriarty. I sighed as I slid my mobile back into my pocket and turned back to Sherlock. He was still intently focused on his hands. I glanced over to where Sherlock had half a dozen CDs haphazardly strewn across one of his desks, and selected a compilation of Celtic lullabies that I had heard him playing softly on the violin one night when I had trouble sleeping.

“Sherlock, I’m going to put this CD on softly, okay? And Mycroft says to leave you be, so I’m going to watch some television in my room, but if you need me at any time you just come up or… or text me, yeah?” I didn’t think I could possibly sleep after what had happened that evening at the pool, so I planned on putting the TV on for background noise and making myself a big mug of tea. Sherlock made no movement to suggest he had heard me. I hovered in the doorway for a few more minutes, before quietly pulling his door to, making myself some tea and heading up to my room.

Two hours later my mobile buzzed across my nightstand, signalling a text message. I reached across for it and saw it was from Sherlock.

 _I apologise for earlier, John. I had not had a reaction like that for years and I thought that it would not happen again. Sometimes I get overwhelmed. It used to be the constant stream of data flowing through my head, it made my skin itch and the only thing that slowed my brain down was to watch the washing machine. Now it seems that after emotional trauma I experience the same feelings and need to calm myself down in the same way. I did not mean to worry you. SH._

 

~~~

That was two months ago, and there had not been a repeat episode until now. I continued humming as I settled myself into Sherlock’s chair in the living room. It was facing into the kitchen so I could glance up at Sherlock every now and again. He was sitting as still as a statue. All I could do was wait until his mind had slowed and calmed enough for him to return from wherever it was he had gone to.

Sherlock knew that I knew that his high functioning sociopath label was nonsense. I remembered enough from my psychiatry rotation to know that no such diagnosis existed. I concluded that it was easier for him to hide behind that made up label, especially when it came to dealing with Donovan and Anderson.

“John?” came a quiet voice from the kitchen. I snapped out of my thoughts and looked up to see Sherlock peering at me from the doorway. He looked smaller than usual. Not in a physical sense, he was still as tall as ever, but all of a sudden he looked ridiculous inside that large coat.

“Do you need anything, Sherlock? Do you want to join me in here, or…?” I didn’t really know what to suggest. I didn’t want to overwhelm him all over again, or spook him.

“Can I talk to you?” Sherlock padded over to the sofa where he perched at the end closest to the kitchen. He looked at me with large, enquiring eyes.

“Of course you can. What’s bothering you, ‘Lock?” Sherlock visibly relaxed as he heard my name for him. I only ever called him by that name occasionally, usually as we were cuddled together in one of our beds as we were drifting off to sleep, feeling safe in each other’s presence.

“My head was too loud today,” Sherlock whispered. “I couldn’t stop the constant stream of thoughts. Every sound was amplified; echoing inside my head. The light was too bright; burning into my retinas. My heart sounded too loud pounding in my ears and I just needed it to stop.” My heart ached for Sherlock as I thought of what it must have felt like for him as a child, with everything too much and not understanding how to make it quiet. I thought of him later on, with a needle in his arm, just to quieten his head, and my chest tightened. Sherlock made a motion as if he wanted to move closer to me. He still looked incredibly small. I stood up slowly.

“Sherlock, I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to, but do you want a hug?” Sometimes even touch overwhelmed Sherlock. He would desperately want to be close to me, but the physical contact would make his skin feel like it was burning and he would jerk away.

“Please, John.” I moved over to the sofa and took Sherlock’s hand. I removed his coat as gently as I could and guided him to lie down across the sofa. I pressed myself in next to him, wrapping my arm loosely across his stomach.

“Is this okay, ‘Lock?” I turned my head to look at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed and was breathing methodically and slowly.

“It’s perfect. Don’t go, just stay with me for a while, John.”

“As long as you need me, I’ll be here. I love you.” I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them lightly against Sherlock’s lips, before placing my arm back across the top of his stomach.

~~~

Iwoke up a couple of hours later by myself on the sofa. I blinked the sleep from my eyes as Sherlock suddenly strode into the lounge buttoning up his coat.

“Lestrade just texted, two bodies found in a shallow grave in Shoreditch, but they’ve been identified as a married couple who claim to still be alive. Come on John!” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.

The gleam was back in Sherlock’s eye. He was making hurry up motions at me with his hands as he relayed all of the facts to me. And once again, Sherlock Holmes was back and the game was on.


End file.
